What if it’s just an excuse, this writing thing?
What if it’s just an excuse to live softly, senses-first, engaged foremost in the itty-est bitty-est details of the space around — and within — me?
What if what I really want is the freedom to live against the grain, and “I’m a writer” is more about what I take in than what I write out?
What if my greatest accomplishment isn’t the book that comes out next, but the way I need to live (intentionally, exuberantly, quietly, gently, bravely, “don’t f*ck with my purpose”-ly) in order to create the book?
What if — dare I admit it? — I’m more committed to a daily living practice than a daily writing practice?
oh dear God, this is the stuff of (my) nightmares,
my dream of being a writer is more about living, about loving, than about <whisper> putting words to paper?
Then so be it.
Because a thing that nudges me, pulls me, drags me, teases me to the richer reaches of living? I’ll take that excuse any day.
And chances are, I’ll write about it.